


i wear your granddad's clothes (i look incredible)

by carfucker



Category: Cars (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Doc is 70 and Lightning is 30, Doc's Robe, Domestic, Dumbass Lightning McQueen, Erectile Dysfunction, Getting Together, Humanized Cars, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Pining, Smut, hell yeah we're going there, oh yeah, sup tag wranglers let's make this a canonical tag lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 19:50:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19383571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carfucker/pseuds/carfucker
Summary: Because you love him, this wild mustang of a boy who’s everything you’ve learned to steer clear of as well as everything you’ve ever wanted in your long, long life. He disrupts all your routines just as thoroughly as he wrecked your roads six months ago; it would only be fair to make him fix it, make him fixyou.ORThe One Where Lightning McQueen Wears Doc Hudson’s Old Man Robe And It’s A Lot





	i wear your granddad's clothes (i look incredible)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [objectlesson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/gifts).



> Certain Parts of this are inspired by [this anon](https://alienfuckeronmain.tumblr.com/post/185799314370/imagine-lightning-sucking-docs-soft-old-man-dick) alienfuckeronmain got (hello yes anon did we just become best friends I THINK YES) and [this fic](https://carfucker95.tumblr.com/post/185864887706/doc-is-insecure-about-his-erectile-dysfuntion-but) by genderrfluidharry that i ADORE and have reread like five times ily
> 
> THANK U PHOENIX FOR THE BETA ILY ALSO

You’re a big fan of routine. It’s partly because you’re old and somewhat set in your ways, and partly because you’ve never had someone around to disrupt it before. Especially not someone like Lightning McQueen, who rolled into your life like a fucking whirlwind and never left. Who’s  _ living with you _ because he’s got nowhere else. (He tells you that it gives him an advantage on the track, and you pretend to agree and avoid looking him in the eyes until you’re sure they won’t betray your true feelings.) 

Because you love him, this wild mustang of a boy who’s everything you’ve learned to steer clear of as well as everything you’ve ever wanted in your long, long life. He disrupts all your routines just as thoroughly as he wrecked your roads six months ago; it would only be fair to make him fix it, make him fix  _ you _ . 

You like your routines, you like taking showers at the same time every morning before putting on your robe and slippers and going to read the morning paper with a cup of coffee before you begin your day for real. You’ve just finished up that shower when you hit your first snag: your robe is missing. You’d assume you left it behind in your room if your slippers hadn’t been in the same place you left them. 

There’s only one real explanation here, but you’re unable to wrap your brain around the possibility that Lightning took your robe. You also cannot imagine what he’d even be doing with the damn thing. Since there’s nothing you can do about it now, you settle for wrapping yourself in an excessive amount of bath towels and make your way out of the bathroom with the intention of confronting Lightning, and figure out how to accuse him of stealing without really accusing him of stealing. 

In the end, you chicken out. You can’t bring yourself to do it when you find him sitting at your kitchen table demolishing a bowl of leftover chili with a look of bliss on his face. It’s obscene; you can’t stop staring. He doesn’t notice you at first, attention too focused on getting every last bit of chili in his mouth and he only looks at you when you clear your throat. For the second time. Louder. 

“Oh, hey,” he says easily, too casually in your opinion. “Didn’t know you were back.”

“Told you my plans before I left,” you remind him. “Just like I always do.”

“Such a considerate housemate,” he coos, and laughs at your scowl that’s only half teasing. But you’ve got to put up these walls,  _ any walls _ , even if Lightning McQueen devotes most of his time tearing them down. You rebuild and he knocks down. And repeat and repeat and repeat. 

Eventually, you find your robe stuffed in your hamper, and you’re certain you weren’t the one to put it there but you still don’t confront him. You do, however, wear it while watching some movie he’s been begging you to see with him. He’d whined and whined until you gave in, and now he’s not even properly paying attention, keeps stealing glances your way, and you suspect you know why. 

You don’t look at him, don’t let him know that you see, that you  _ know.  _ You just sit and watch the stupid movie, and pretend not to notice the way his breath hitches as you play with the sash idly, spread your legs just a little bit wider, scratch at your chest hair until he whimpers and it turns from teasing him to torture for you. 

And yet you can’t stop, you keep speeding along, heart pounding because you’re terrified, because  _ you don’t do this _ . And you especially don’t do this with  _ him.  _ And now it’s worse, because he’s shifting uncomfortably on the cushion now, hands twitching at his sides like he’s fighting an urge. 

You know what it is, you can  _ smell it on him _ and the fact that you’ve memorized the way he smells is so shameful that teasing him loses its appeal. You feel  _ dirty _ , like the old pervert you swore you’d never be. Guilt twists in your gut, and he’s still just  _ sitting  _ and  _ squirming  _ and clutching at his thighs. There’s raised lines there, red standing out even more than usual because it’s one of the only places he never seems to tan. 

It gets _worse. Again._ Because now you’re thinking about those thighs, about watching him tan in your garden.You never allow yourself that indulgence, but you still think about what it would be like. Fantasize about him _letting you_ , because you like to think he’d like being watched, being wanted, and you think - no, you _know_ \- you could give that to him.

“Shit!” he yelps, and jumps up from the couch, the beer he’s just spilled on his lap darkening the light gray of his shorts. It makes the fabric cling to the outline of his hard cock, and his hands fly to cover his crotch before you manage to get a good look in. Which is probably for the best, because this doesn’t make you feel any less creepy. You right the fallen bottle for him, and know without asking exactly why he did it. You aren’t sure what to do with the knowledge that you’ve managed to turn him on, make him hard enough that he felt the need to hide it. That he’s  _ leaving  _ because you’ve affected him so badly. 

You don’t even remember how it started, just that it involved Lightning, and your robe, and this was a mistake. You should have just asked him outright, but it’s too late now. So you stay there, sit on the couch and finish the movie without him, because he’d asked, and as much as you hate to admit it, you can’t say no to Lightning McQueen. This will be your downfall; you know this, you’re  _ aware _ . You’ll get burned, because he may now know what he’s doing to you, but you  _ do,  _ and it’s the sweetest torment, and you’d rather have him like this than not at all. 

So you stay, and watch, and you pine the way lonely old men do, in your robe with your whiskey and your regret, and you tell yourself this won’t happen again. 

 

**~*~**

 

You can’t stop. It’s getting embarrassing. really, how much you  _ want this.  _ You don’t know why you do it, why you prefer wearing Doc’s robe around the house over, well, pretty much anything else. And only when he’s not home,  _ obviously.  _ Because there’s literally no way to explain why you do it - mostly because you aren’t all that sure yourself, but the idea of Doc catching you doing something so… well, creepy. is mortifying. 

Like, not mortifying enough to prevent you from doing it, but it’s still enough to make your face go how and your stomach churns at the thought of Doc knowing about his secret obsession with his robe. And by extension,  _ him.  _

He might even make you leave.

That’s still not enough to stop you, which, if you’re being honest, is a bit of a mind-fuck because it’s being  _ so important  _ and you love wearing it  _ so much  _ that you don’t care about the risk. And you’ve been able to avoid getting caught; he always makes sure to tell you when he’s leaving, where he’s going, when you can expect him back. It’s just one of the many reasons you love living with him, he’s so fucking courteous . It almost makes you feel guilty. 

You tell yourself it’s the last time, and maybe you really mean it but then you fall asleep on the couch wearing Doc’s robe and nothing else, and only wake up when you hear the scrape of his key in the lock. There isn’t enough time to escape, not that you could move if you wanted to because you’re literally frozen in place as you wait for him to get closer. 

You don’t have to wait long. He enters the room slowly, a little uncoordinated and he smells like the bar. Like smoke and alcohol and something foreign that makes your stomach drop as you think about him being out somewhere  _ without you _ . You don’t know who he was with, what he might have done, and the jealousy that makes your skin prickle is only a temporary distraction from the shame that hits the moment you lock eyes with Doc.

You watch him take it all in: you, your current state of undress, the can of beer on the coffee table with no coaster under it, the pile of cellophane wrappers next to it because you love those butterscotch things Doc keeps in a little bowl and one became two and two became a handful, and now all of your shame is laid bare for him to see. To judge.

Only he doesn’t react like you think he would. Should. He doesn’t yell, he doesn’t even seem all that angry. He’s just looking at you like you’re a child who’s just done something unintentionally amusing, and you’re torn between begging for his forgiveness, and begging for things you don’t even give a name to yet. Because naming means they’re real, and it’s easier to keep all those thoughts and feelings and desires locked up tight. Except sometimes it’s harder, sometimes you catch yourself wondering things like  _ why do I like hugging Doc so much  _ and  _ does Doc think I’m attractive  _ and _ Do I  _ want  _ Doc to find me attractive?  _

And these are just the thoughts you allow yourself to remember. 

So Doc doesn’t yell at you, but he doesn’t say anything either. He just keeps staring, and you know it’s cliche but you’re literally drowning in the icy blue pools of his eyes. At this point, you aren’t sure you want to be rescued. There’s no point, you’re still frozen and he’s still silent, and you’re sure he can hear how loudly your heart is beating in your chest, the way the blood is rushing in your ears. He opens his mouth like he’s about to say something, but seems to change his mind and just shakes his head and smiles. It’s not his normal smile, it doesn’t reach his eyes, and your guilt hasn’t eased one bit. 

You want to apologize, but you don’t know where to start. You don’t get a chance anyway because he finally frees you from the blue icy water, shakes his head, and sort of chuckles quietly as he leaves the room. You listen to his footsteps, so familiar now that you can tell he’s going to his own room based on how long the sound goes on for. Which is probably creepy, but it’s the least creepy thing you’ve done tonight so it’s not exactly worrying you. 

Doc is worrying you, though. You’re confused by his reaction - or lack thereof - and you almost wish he’d yelled at you. Then you’d at least feel something besides these squirmy, odd feelings that make your stomach clench and your cock twitch. 

You consider following after him, to lay this to rest before you stew in these feelings any longer, but as you go to stand you remember you’re still wearing his robe, still naked underneath, and sweaty enough, grimy enough to throw any remaining hope of staying confident out the window. 

So you leave it, you try not to listen to the noise he makes getting ready for bed, you almost wish you didn’t know it by heart, and you busy yourself with cleaning up the mess you’ve made. Of his couch, of his coffee table. Of his robe.  Of your life, of any chance you might get to ask Doc to help you figure out your confusing emotions. Not that you could go to him anyway, not when they’re about  _ him _ , but it’d been nice to have the option. Now you’ve gone and ruined it, messed it up and you don’t know how to fix it. 

There’s still beer left in the can when you lift it, and drinking it turns out to be a mistake. Not the worst mistake you’ve made, though, and you accept the ache in your belly as a punishment for… For whatever you did to make Doc not want to even  _ speak to you.  _

The butterscotch wrappers crinkle loudly in your hands as you gather them up to be thrown away, you shove them into the kitchen trash can and tell yourself you’ll take it out tomorrow morning. You should do it tonight, since it’s full and that’s

mostly your fault, but it’s dark, and it’s late, and if you walk outside now you might keep going. 

That’s the thought that scares you most of all, that’s the thought that keeps you up the rest of the night.  That’s the thought that finally convinces you to leave Doc’s things - his clothes, his  _ robe  _ \- alone for good this time. It’s not worth the trouble. 

(Even you know that’s a lie.) 

 

**~*~**

 

Days pass. A week. Two. You get comfortable, certain that Doc would have said something by now. So really, it’s all your fault for forgetting you’re dealing with the one person who’s constantly throwing you for a loop. 

“Got you something,” he says over the top of his paper when you come looking for breakfast. You wrinkle your nose and stretch; it’s too early for conversation and you aren’t even awake enough to focus properly but you can tell there’s a bag waiting for you on the chair at Doc’s table that you’ve unofficially claimed as yours. It’s got tissue paper in it, the shiny kind, and whatever it is looks important; you should say thank you.

“It’s not my birthday,” you blurt instead, and if he’s offended by your reaction there’s no sign. Not even a quiver of his mustache or a flash of his eyes and you consider yourself safe for now. Safe, except you’re being forced to acknowledge your painful past and what the act of giving gifts meant all your life. 

But Doc doesn’t know all of that, you shouldn't be upset with him, and he really, truly isn’t. Mostly he’s just focusing on what this means, the fact that you and Doc have the sort of mentor/mentee relationship where two men can give each other all the affection they each deserve, and the fact that you’ve started  _ craving  _ things - power and recognition and the ability to be taken  _ seriously _ \- isn’t Doc’s fault. 

“I know,” he says, “I just saw it and thought of you.”

You take the box from him and tear the paper off, not bothering to be neat about it. Instantly your hand hits what feels like a soft towel, and you’re confused until you shuck the rest of the paper off and hold it up. 

“A bathrobe?”

He nods. “Now you can stop taking mine all the damn time.” 

You feel seen. You feel naked, transparent, the most obvious and obnoxious person. He’s done it, he’s finally said something, finally called you on your shit, and you kinda wanna cry. You sniffle, and go to wipe your eyes except you can’t because you’re holding a bathrobe. A bathrobe that Doc bought you, that is yours now and that you could probably use to wipe your eyes but you  _ don’t _ . It’s all wrong, and you don’t want it, and that makes you feel even  _ worse _ , refusing a gift from Doc. 

“Thanks,” you say, and deliberately don’t acknowledge the thing he said about you stealing. You want to leave the room now, but he’s staring at you expectantly and you want to know what he wants you to do next. 

“Aren’t you gonna try it on?” He’s teasing you now, he _has to_  be. But you’re not one to back down from a challenge, wouldn’t be Lightning McQueen if you were. You do take your time unfolding it though, allow yourself to feel how plush and soft the cloth is under your fingers. It’s nice, so  _ nice _ . Like, even  _ you _ can tell it’s nice, that it’s a quality garment. Expensive, probably, and that makes you feel weird, the thought of Doc spending money on you. Spending a  _ lot  _ of money on you like he’s the famous one, like he’s your damn  _ sugar daddy _ . 

That thought makes you shiver.

His gaze feels heavy as you slide the robe on. It’s become a habit that you turn your head when you do this, press your face into the collar of his robe and  _ inhale.  _ But you’re not wearing Doc’s robe this time, and the chemical scent of the new cotton is an unpleasant shock to your system.

It also feels too  _ light _ . Doc’s robe is thicker, bulkier, and it just makes the whole thing feel even more, well…

Wrong.

It feels all wrong.  _ So  _ wrong. As much as you wish you didn’t hate his new present, you  _ do _ , which makes you feel like the worst sort of jerk. Because this is a  _ gift.  _ One that Doc bought for you without being asked, like he just saw it and thought of you, and you’re thinking of him as your sugar daddy again. 

(It’s dangerous business, dreaming.)

Doc is still watching as you pull the robe around yourself and tie the sash in that way he showed you a few weeks ago.

“Thanks,” you somehow manage again, because you don’t trust yourself to say anything else, not when your throat’s gone gooey and your eyes are hot and prickling and you suspect your cheeks are getting pink. 

“It’s good? It fits okay?” 

You nod, and you can’t be in this room any longer, so you mumble some excuse about putting it in your room and hurry off before he has a chance to respond. 

As soon as the door is closed you’re untying the sash, ripping the offending robe off your body before it can contaminate you further. God, it even looks wrong strewn on your  _ carpet _ .  You stare at it until you can’t anymore, and then you pack it away, hoping Doc doesn’t ask about it, and you tell yourself to forget the fucking thing even exists. 

(It works for the robe.)

(It doesn’t work for Doc.)

 

**~*~**

 

Your robe doesn’t go missing anymore, not since you bought Lightning his own and even though you’ve never actually seen him wear it, you figure he has to be. Because yours only leaves the hook in the bathroom when it’s on your body, and weeks go by without further incident.

You almost forget about it entirely, it’s not like he brings it up or you dwell on it often, so there’s a significant moment of pause when you reach for

your robe as you step out of the shower and it  _ isn’t there _ . You look down because maybe it’s just fallen to the floor only it  _ hasn’t  _ and you can’t believe he’d be brazen enough to do this practically under your nose. 

You pull on the sweats you’d been wearing before you got in the shower, and rub at the rest of your body with a hand towel and frown because you still don’t feel completely dry. 

When you walk into your room he’s there, on your bed, in  _ your robe. _ Like he was expecting you, like he was  _ waiting for you _ .

“What’re you doing, son?”

He looks up at you, and you inhale sharply at the sight of his red, tear-stained face, his bloodshot eyes, his swollen lower lip, puffy and pink like he’s been biting it relentlessly. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, eyes darting away quickly, and the way he sniffles so quietly, like he’s still trying to hide it from you is heart-wrenching. “I tried to stop, I really tried to stop doing it because I know it’s like, super invasive and creepy and like you’re trusting me to live in your house and I keep  _ betraying  _ that and I’m—“ He inhales shakily, lifts his gaze again. “I’m really sorry, and this was…” He starts to shrug off the robe before he seems to realize he’s not wearing a shirt, and he stops abruptly and goes crimson. “Fuck.”

Your head is spinning at his apology, because, yes, you’ve sort of  _ known _ , he hasn’t exactly been subtle. But hearing him confess, hearing how broken and vulnerable and  _ exposed  _ it makes him… Hearing how he apparently couldn’t resist— Couldn’t resist wearing your bathrobe? It doesn’t make sense to you, doesn’t add up, and the way you purse your lips must look more like disapproval than utter confusion because he lets out a choked sob, and you can’t stay away any longer. You have to know what’s happening, you need  _ answers _ , it’s  _ important _ . But you forget all about that in your quest to comfort him, to wipe that expression off his face that you’re beginning to suspect you put there. To kiss away his tears. 

Something tells you he might actually let that happen.

You’ve been around long enough that you’ve learned the signs, can pick up on even the subtlest of signals, not to mention you’ve been paying attention to Lightning McQueen for so long that nothing he does surprises you anymore. Or at least that’s what you tell yourself, because it’s easier to pretend this was an inevitable development and that you’re not completely thrown off balance, that you’re in  _ control.  _ It’s important that you’re in control, he  _ needs  _ it, relies on you to always be in control. 

So you fake it. For him. (Always for him.)

“That’s my robe,” you say, which makes you cringe because it’s  _ not  _ what you intended to start with, but you made the mistake of looking at him, of really  _ looking at him _ , and now it’s all you can think about.

He swallows thickly. “Yeah.”

“Why?” 

Lightning shrugs, looks miserable, and you know, you  _ know _ , but you need to hear him say it. It’s important to you that he says it. 

“It doesn’t smell like you. The robe you got me. Like, I appreciate it, I really  _ really  _ do - love when you buy me things, makes me feel special or whatever - but I didn’t need a bathrobe. I needed, like, I needed yours. Because it was the closest thing I could think of to having—”

He cuts himself off, and you fight the urge to growl, to force the rest of that sentence out because this is not the time. He needs to move at his own pace, and you’d regret it forever if you ruined this important moment with your own selfish impatience. 

You don’t reach for him, don’t try to touch him even as your hands are shaking with the effort. It gets worse when his lower lip starts to wobble, and the only reason you don’t fall forward onto the bed and reach for him is because he’s standing up first, reaching for you first. You freeze, time stops, and you hardly dare to even  _ breathe _ lest you shatter the moment. 

“Having what?” you say, because this can’t go further without you knowing. “Having  _ what _ , boy?”

Like a marionette whose strings have been cut, he collapses against you, hands scrabbling at your back and breath hot on your neck. “You,” he chokes out, “you, I wanted - want… I, I just want you.” He stops moving, just buries his head in the space between your shoulder and your neck and exhales shakily. “I’m sorry, sorry I want you so bad, sorry I couldn’t control myself.” He goes to pull away, another apology ready to spill from his lips, but you hold on, hold tight, you’re not letting him go that easily. 

You have questions, you have so many questions that you want to ask. You really mean to ask them, because they’re  _ important  _ and  _ necessary  _ but he’s also inches away from you and looking so damn kissable that any resolve you pretended to have has officially left the building. 

And you give in, you kiss him like you’ve wanted to for  _ ages _ , like you’ve craved and it’s not exactly what you expected it would be like because it’s  _ better _ . Kissing Lightning McQueen for real is one hundred times better, hotter,  _ wetter _ , than any secret fantasy you’ve been harboring.  And then, because one fantasy getting fulfilled isn’t enough today, he slides his hand down your chest, to your stomach to your crotch where he cups you and moans. It confuses you, because you’re not hard which isn’t unfamiliar to you because you’re old and this  _ happens  _ but it’s still disappointing. 

He must notice, he’s started feeling you out know and you suspect you’re his first man but surely even he knows what a hard cock feels like. 

“I can’t get it up for you,” you say regretfully, “I want to, just can’t. We can try again later if you want, I can… take something.” 

He shakes his head quickly, eyes wide like your suggestion is crazy. “Don’t care, wanna taste you, wanna blow— Let me blow you,” he begs. “Can’t stop thinking about it, can I? Can I suck your cock?” You nod and watch as he sinks to his knees with a sigh that sounds too much like gratitude given the situation. He stays there on his knees, still like a statue like he’s all ready and waiting for your go ahead. You try to push the robe off his shoulders and he whines so you stop. 

“C’mere, baby,” you say instead, and he whimpers and  _ oh  _ that feels powerful. And that scares you, that foreign feeling of power, of  _ control _ . Lots of things involving Lightning scare you, but it’s nothing you want to deal with while you’ve got the man  himself on his knees begging to suck your cock. 

He knee walks towards you, and you watch him move, breathless as he advances. When he’s within reach, you cup the back of his head with one hand and work on your belt with the other. 

He reaches up to help but you slap his hand away. And again, because he’s a determined sonofabitch who seems to think this is some sort of  _ race _ to be won. “Slow down there, hotshot,” you chide.

He groans a bit petulantly but drops his hands.

“Open your mouth, baby… Yeah, there you go, perfect.” He lets you position him where you want, and if he’s confused about where you’re doing he doesn’t look it. The expression on his face is _dazed_ ; the idea that famous race car driver _Lightning_ _McQueen_ looks like that after begging for your soft old man cock is so incredibly _foreign_ to you that you keep discreetly pinching yourself. Multiple reminders that this is _real_ this is _happening_ and you know how this will end, he’s going to leave you for someone who can get hard whenever they want to but right now… 

Right now it’s  _ your  _ cock he wants, that he’s craning his neck to mouth at gently. Like it’s something precious, like it’s a  _ reward.  _ He whines when you straddle his shoulders, which covers up the noise you make when your bad knee hits the mattress at the wrong angle. You hold yourself up enough that he can barely get at the tip, you hold his shoulders down until he can’t get at it  _ full stop  _ and you haven’t heard a boy make a noise like that in  _ decades _ .

So you allow yourself to revel, to enjoy the feeling and try not to think too hard. But it’s worth it, you think, to risk your heart, to risk everything to have him. Even just this once. You’d somehow managed to convince yourself that you’d be stronger, in the event that you ever got the chance to touch him, kiss him,  _ feel him _ . You told yourself you’d built up a tolerance, that you’d be able to resist him unless you knew he’d be all in, that any chance you had to touch the sun wasn’t just a one-off thing. Wasn’t a mistake. 

This was a lie, these were all lies, and every ounce of resolve you’d been so sure of even an hour ago drained away the moment he kissed you. 

“God, Doc,” he whines, “stop teasin’, let me have it, wanna suck you,  _ please _ .” He begs so pretty, you want to feed him your cock but you don’t want to stop his filthy mouth. The tendons in his neck stand out in sharp relief as he strains to get to your cock. His eyes are wild and his breathing is labored already, and you can’t deny him any longer. 

You do what he’s asked, you feed him your cock, watch as it slips out of his waiting mouth and try again. You pet at his hair and let your head fall back against the headboard as he suckles gently. He tries to bob his head at first, but soon figures out you’re too flaccid and for some reason you still can’t wrap your head around he wants to  _ keep going like that.  _ You decide you need to see his face again, and you pull on his hair hard around to lift his head. He doesn’t protest, just looks up at you with shining eyes and when you slide your hand from his hair to cup his cheek he leans into your touch and sighs.

“Tell me I’m doing a good job,” he begs as you hold him there.

“So good, baby; you’re perfect,” you reassure him, because it’s  _ true  _ and he deserves to hear it. “You suck me so well,” you continue, “make me feel like the luckiest guy in the world, I get to watch you like this, hear the noises you make and know you’re making them because of me. Because of your old man.” 

He takes you down again, sucks hollows his cheeks and  _ sucks _ and you swear you see stars. Your cock is still limp, but that doesn’t stop it from feeling  _ good _ and knowing that it turns him on enough that he’s jerking off furiously while doing it would be enough to put you over the edge if you were actually hard right now. But you aren’t hard, and he is, and your mouth waters as you think about tasting his cock. Only the very tip pokes out of his fist, a perfect little mouthful, and now it’s you’re torn between letting him continue to suck your cock and sucking his perfect one until he comes in your mouth. You think about how it would taste, about swallowing it all down, and your decision is made.

He makes a disgruntled noise when you stop him, he leans down, strains to get at it again. “Let me… Wanna suck you while I come,” he says, and god, you want that, but not this time.

“I know, baby,” you say, and you pet at his hair some more, smooth the sweaty strands away from his forehead. “Next time, okay? You can do this again, any time you like, but I really wanna taste you, is that okay, sweetheart?”

“Oh, fuck,” he yelps, and you look down to see his cock twitching like he’s about to come right  _ now.  _ “Do it, god, Doc,  _ yes, _ do it,  _ make me come. _ ”

He’s small enough that you’ve got no trouble flipping him over, and your lips barely graze the red-gold thatch of pubic hair at the base of his cock because he’s twitching again,  _ spasming  _ uncontrollably inside your mouth. 

He cries when he comes. Not cries out,  _ cries _ , and for a moment it scares you, you think you went too far, that he regrets letting you in, but he’s smiling through his tears and  _ reaching for you _ and you haul him up, wrap him tight in your arms and just  _ hold him. _

Eventually, he stops crying, but you still hold him and he lets you and he isn’t pushing you away, and everything feels warm and delicate but in a good way, a gentle way and not like it’s about to break. Like it’s precious. Because  _ he’s  _ precious. 

He’s still wearing the damn robe. You don’t mind anymore, you can’t find it in yourself to  _ care _ . You’ve fallen in love with the sight almost as quickly as you fell in love with  _ him. _

“Now you’ve got the real me,” you say as you rub his inner thigh, feel the place his pubic hair spreads out from where it’s usually covered by his briefs. You watch it move under your hand, you want to bite him there, but you hold off for now. “Now you’ve got the real me,” you say again, because his thighs were too distracting, “so I reckon you don’t need to be stealing my robe anymore, right? Especially considering you’ve got your own and all.” 

Lightning covers your hand with his own, squeezes it once and nuzzles your neck sweetly. “Not a chance in hell, old man.”

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr post](https://carfucker95.tumblr.com/post/185889058866/i-wear-your-granddads-clothes-i-look-incredible)


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